


we'll be a fine line

by esperanzameanshope



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Inspired by a Harry Styles Song, M/M, Multi, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26508379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esperanzameanshope/pseuds/esperanzameanshope
Summary: It's a fine line between love and lust.or, a collection of Harry Potter one-shots inspired by various lines/lyrics/full songs by Harry Styles
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass/Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass/Ginny Weasley, Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Multiple Pairings - Relationship, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Pansy Parkinson/Percy Weasley, Theodore Nott/Harry Potter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	1. hard liquor mixed with a bit of intellect

Title: “hard liquor mixed with a bit of intellect” (from, my personal fave, Kiwi off HS1)  
Rating: Explicit (language, explicit sex)  
Pairing(s): Pansy Parkinson/Percy Weasley; Background pairing(s): Draco/Hermione, Harry/Theo, Ginny/Blaise/Daphne  
Summary: Pansy Parkinson, aimless and poor, desperately applies for a job at the Ministry. She doesn’t know it’s for a position under Percy Weasley. From the little she remembers of him at school, he was insufferable. But everything is different after the war. Maybe he is, too.

~*~*~*~*~

  
Her second chance came in the form of a job that she didn’t get.

“An administrative assistant position” is what Hermione had called it, in an attempt to make it sound more enticing than what it actually was: taking orders from some uptight prick in an absurdly expensive suit.

But she’d been desperate, even going so far as debating on taking a position at Draco’s fledgling company. And while she loved him—very much in an _only friends_ sort of way, she would often assure Hermione, even though she knew as much—the thought of her working under Draco made her physically cringe. She could only handle so much of his sardonic borderline-narcissism in any given day, so forty-plus hours a week simply would not do.

Enter Hermione’s offer, as they brunched with Daphne and Ginny at a much-too-expensive Muggle-inspired patisserie that had just opened in Diagon Alley. 

She was in the middle of complaining about her struggles facing her newfound poverty, when Hermione interrupted with an exclamation of an available job position at the Ministry.

Pansy had, at first, scoffed at the idea of working for the very institution that had impoverished her (she understood why her family had to pay reparations, but _still_ ). But then she’d received the cheque and, despite ordering the cheapest items off the menu (an expertly laminated croissant and a singular mimosa), she’d still managed to overdraft her Gringotts account. She knew then that she couldn’t—excuse the pun—afford to be picky.

So she’d let Hermione put a good word in for her with whoever was hiring. She didn’t know all the details and, quite frankly, didn’t _want_ to know all the details. She was sure they’d just make her sad. Too little pay for too much work and all that.

A few days later she found herself tugging at an accidentally too-short pencil skirt as she sat in the waiting area of the Department of Magical Transportation. She’d arrived entirely too early, the anxiety she’d developed following the war allowing nothing less, and sat for nearly half an hour before the department head was ready for her. 

In all the time she spent waiting, though, her nervous energy did not let up. She practised her answers to questions she thought they might ask several times. The last thing she needed was to fuck the interview up because of her big fat mouth. By the time she was called in for her interview, a cold sweat had plastered her thin, flowing blouse to her back.

She was led to the office of the head of the department by his current secretary, a woman who appeared to be a very recent Hogwarts graduate and heavily pregnant. Pansy herself had only left Hogwarts three years ago, following her brief return in order to sit for her N.E.W.T.s, so she’d probably run into this woman at some point or another whilst there.

Thoroughly distracted by this very thought, Pansy entered the office without any idea of what to expect. So when she saw the orange hair and freckled face of the man behind the desk, it took her a long moment before she fully comprehended what— _who_ —she was seeing.

Weasley. Undoubtedly.

Her first thought: _Oh shit._

Her second thought: _Well, fuck._

Her third thought: _The annoying one._

Her fourth thought, a sarcastic _That’s specific. That’s like saying “the ginger one,”_ was interrupted by the man behind the desk clearing his throat. She realised, rather belatedly, that while she was caught up in her own internal dialogue, she’d probably been staring at him in shock like a twat.

“H-hello,” she stuttered out, despite Pansy never stuttering before a day in her life.

The Weasley (of the “Percy” variety, according to the name placard and her foggy memory) looked at her, unimpressed, over his horn-rimmed glasses. He responded with a simple, “Hello, Miss Parkinson. Please sit,” and gestured in front of his desk.

She took one of the two uncomfortable-looking chairs proffered without another word, tugging at her skirt as she did so. The hem reached dangerous heights on her thighs whenever she sat. Like she had in the lobby, she attempted to cover her exposed leg with her jacket and purse. Weasley, did not seem to notice. And if he did, like a true gentleman, he didn’t even bat an eyelash.

Long lashes, she noticed. Lashes she’d kill for, quite frankly, if they weren’t so bloody oran—

“One moment, please,” Percy Weasley said as he shuffled through papers. He did not bother looking up at her.

As he did whatever the hell he was doing, Pansy allowed herself a moment to remember what she knew of this Weasley from their brief time together at Hogwarts. She vaguely remembered him as a dreadfully acute Prefect her first two years and a just as insufferable Head Boy in third year. 

He had been particularly high-strung during her second year, when the Chamber was opened and that basilisk was going around Petrifying everyone. He had caught her, Blaise, and Theo in the corridors after-hours once. When he’d shouted at them that it was dangerous to be out, Pansy had very smartly mouthed off that “the basilisk wasn’t very well going to attack them, was it?” She’d lost Slytherin twenty points and gotten detention with McGonagall for an entire month with that one.

She wondered if he remembered that. 

Or if he remembered that time, in third year—

Finally he snatched out a piece of parchment from his pile and studied it for a moment. From the small size, Pansy assumed it was the resume Hermione had passed along.

“Well,” he said, “thank you for coming, Miss Parkinson. I apologize for making you wait, though I do appreciate you being exceptionally punctual.” 

His eyes moved up from the paper to look at her. For a moment, one that seemed to stretch on for much longer than it actually did, he simply gazed at her. His expression was impassive, unreadable. Under his gaze, she felt as though she was burning. What could he possibly be looking for as he stared at her?

“You’ve never had a job before,” he said, and though it was a statement, his words held the air of a question to them.

“I’ve never needed one before,” she replied to his non-question, without much thought.

His eyes darkened, just for a moment. “Yes, of course. That old pureblood money.” His tone was just slightly bitter, but his expression returned to its original placidity.

And of course that was one detail Pansy had not forgotten. No pureblood family could forget it. The issue of the Weasley’s lack of fortune, of course. Because despite their blood status, despite their membership as part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, they had very little wealth or influence. Pansy always wondered if they were ever bothered by this fact. She supposed now she had one answer.

“Yes, well, that’s all gone now,” Pansy said, again without any thought behind it.

For a moment, she thought that perhaps she should’ve kept that detail to herself. Maybe she should’ve tried to retain some sense of pride. But with her parents gone—her father to Azkaban and her mother to herself—Pansy found that she just didn’t care.

Percy, to his credit, did not react with glee at this information the way Pansy half expected. Instead he simply nodded and glanced back at the sheet.

“You come highly recommended from Hermione Granger,” he said, deftly sliding into the next topic. “Miss Granger is a brilliant witch and old family friend. I trust her judgment without reservation. But I must say, I am a bit surprised that she has endorsed you so fervently.” His eyes once again shifted toward her, one red eyebrow raised.

The singular quirked eyebrow drew Pansy’s attention to that area of his face, and she suddenly realised how blue his eyes were. Had they always been that blue? And then she thought that, yes, they had been. She knew because in her third year—

Pansy realised her thoughts were drifting and he was waiting for some kind of response. She simply shrugged because she honestly didn’t know. “We’re friends now, in a way,” she said. “I have a lot of respect for her.”

Percy looked at her with a look of slight shock on his face. Pansy herself was a little taken aback by her own words and by the truth in them. If anyone had told thirteen-year-old Pansy that she’d be telling Percy Weasley how much she respected Hermione Granger during a job interview, she probably would’ve hexed them for saying something so incredibly absurd.

But there she was, doing just that. Life really does come at you fast.

“Miss Parkinson,” Percy said, clearing his throat, “I want to thank you for coming in. I’d also like to apologize if I have wasted any of your time. Unfortunately, we are not…”

Pansy zoned out, realizing what he was telling her. She stared at a particularly heinous freckle that had stamped itself right on the tip of his nose as he continued on, saying something along the lines of 

“…as a favour to Hermione…” and

“…tried to overlook the indiscretion, despite him being my brother’s best friend…” as well as

“…what with your vaguely criminal history, I don’t see how you could’ve expected…”

And, really, Pansy _should’ve_ expected this. She should have laughed in Hermione’s face at her suggestion. Because really who was she, trying to get a job at the Ministry? Why was she trying to make effort in turning her life around, following its complete and utter upheaval? Was she really trying to salvage her reputation? _Her?_ What right did she have?

_But she’d practised her answers._

“So you’re not going to ask me anything?” Pansy asked distractedly.

“I’m sorry, Miss Parkinson,” he said.

Finally, she tore her eyes away from that freckle and met his eyes. At least, to his credit, he seemed genuine. She nodded numbly and stood, not bothering to adjust her skirt and allowing it to slowly hitch its way up her thighs.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Weasley,” she said, parroting the words she’d practised a thousand times. She tried to relax her clenched jaw, but couldn’t without fear of embarrassing herself. “Have a good rest of your day.” Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked out of the office.

She was focusing so hard on keeping her expression as schooled as possible and her jaw clenched so she wouldn’t cry, that she didn’t even notice she’d left her jacket until she was already home.

~*~*~*~*~

Working for Draco was shaping up to be exactly as fun as she’d expected. He never did handle pressure well, so him owning and operating a small, up-and-coming company was perhaps not the best choice he’d ever made.

But a job was a job and, quite frankly, after the Percy Weasley debacle, Pansy wasn’t sure she was emotionally capable of putting herself out there for a job like that again. So instead she took the office assistant post at Draco’s, learned how to file papers and make coffee, and sucked it up.

She thought she was handling it well. But when she told as much to Daphne, the pretty blonde had laughed in her face.

“Pans, you’re the least well-adjusted person I know,” she said, sipping her glass of champagne delicately. Catching Pansy’s expression, she amended, “I mean that lovingly, of course.”

Pansy sighed and downed the rest of her glass of Ogden’s Old in one swallow, signaling for another from the barkeep. 

(Calling him “the barkeep” allowed Pansy to continue the false notion that she did not know him. When she’d walked in to the Leaky Cauldron thirty minutes prior and settled down at the bar to wait for her friend, she’d taken to flirting with the tall, boyishly handsome blond man mixing drinks. She didn’t understand why he seemed to terrified of her until he fumbled with the glasses and spilled their contents all over the counter. Pansy knew of only one wizard with that _little_ finesse and became nauseated at the realization that she’d been flirting with Neville fucking Longbottom.

She didn’t know what she was more embarrassed at: the fact that it had taken her so long to recognize him or the fact that she found him passingly attractive.)

“Of course,” Pansy snarked back, taking up the new glass that Longbottom had shakily put down in front of her.

“Look,” Daphne sighed, “working for Draco is just temporary, yeah? Just until you find a better-paying job. You don’t have to stay there for life. You’ll get enough experience to put it on your resume and then put yourself back out there. I know it has to be hard, but you’ll get through it and—”

Pansy looked over to see her friend squinting in the direction of Longbottom, who was drying glasses with a hand towel and desperately avoiding looking in their direction.

“Is that Neville Longbottom?” Daphne asked.

Pansy allowed a short laugh to escape and nodded.

Daphne’s eyes widened. “How did I not notice him before? When did he start looking like _that_?”

Pansy nursed her Ogden’s, the warmth of the firewhisky radiating throughout her and loosening her tongue. “Probably since he got married,” she said.

“Longbottom got _married_?” Daphne’s eyes were practically bugging out of her head.

Pansy simply nodded.

Suddenly, from behind them, the door to the pub crashed open, followed by a short curse and a quick apology, and punctuated by a loud call of “Hellooooo ladies!”

The two women glanced at each other, knowing exactly who had just entered the pub. They both spun on their barstools and watched as Theodore Nott, ever tardy and flamboyant in his entrances, swept his way through the tavern and up to them.

“Sorry I’m late,” Theo said, much too loud. “I just woke up, if you can believe it.” His hair was too messy for Pansy to believe anything less. “Had a late night and an early morning, so after work I went home and crashed and woke up not five minutes ago. Sorry, loves.” Something caught his eye. “Is that _Longbottom_? Since when has he been _hot_?”

Pansy rolled her eyes and spun back around on her stool, just in time to see Longbottom’s ears turn bright red and turn away from the three of them.

“That’s what I said!” Daphne exclaimed, smacking Theo’s arm before he moved to sit on the other side of Pansy.

He leaned coolly against the bar, keeping an eye on the door. From behind her, she could hear the door open once more, as what seemed to be a small group entered. Pansy didn’t bother to turn and see who, but noticed how trained Theo’s eyes were.

“Looking for someone?” Pansy asked, frowning.

“No one in particular,” Theo said with a smirk. He glanced down the length of the bar to where Longbottom was biding his time before he caught Theo’s attention again. “Excuse me, handsome barkeep! A round of gin for these lovely ladies and myself.”

Pansy had never seen any barman pour a round of shots so fast in her life. 

Theo went back to watching the door. Pansy and Daphne resumed a relatively banal conversation about their workplaces. But eventually Blaise joined them. (Daphne had absolutely lit up when he’d arrived, failing to hide the fact that they were hooking up in “secret,” though everyone already knew.) He and Daphne had quickly sequestered themselves in a very intimate-looking conversation, leaving Pansy with a very distracted Theo as her sole remaining companion. She tried to engage him in conversation, but most of the time his replies were one word.

And then his eyes lit up. Pansy turned to see who was entering the bar and watched as a sea of gingers entered The Leaky Cauldron, with The Boy Who Lived himself leading the charge.

Pansy watched as Ginny and most of the remaining Weasley men made their way into the pub, each one taller and lankier than the last. There’s no way he’d come here, Pansy thought. But sure enough, there he was, in deep conversation with, based on the scarred yet pretty face, his older brother Bill.

It was the shock of the century. Percy Weasley was at a pub.

Of all the places she never expected to run into the man, a place where people got drunk and had fun was at the absolute top of her list.

It’s not as though she was thoughtfully avoiding him. It was just easy to do as, despite their mutual connection to Hermione, they ran in completely opposite circles. Which was a relief to Pansy, even immediately after that horrible interview. She figured, although the Wizarding World could seem very small sometimes, the chances of her really ever seeing him again were slim-to-none.

But here he was. And though her night was not exactly going as well as she’d initially planned, it was looking like it was going to get a little worse.

~*~*~*~*~

Pansy didn’t know how it happened. Daphne and Blaise had rushed off to greet Ginny, and Theo was in the corner apparently harassing Potter, so she’d managed to find herself alone at the bar. Under different circumstances, she would’ve been fine by herself. But at a bar it felt pathetic.

“Hello, Neville,” came a voice next to her, effectively cutting off her internalised pity party. “Just a chilled butterbeer, thanks.” A pause, presumably as he noticed her. “Miss Parkinson?”

She knew it was him without looking, but she refused to give him that. She attempted to avoid direct contact with his impossibly blue eyes—partially obscured by his (ridiculous) glasses—but they drew her in. “Weasley,” she said, nodding to him. 

She was just as surprised to hear the irritation in her own voice. While, of course she’d been upset at not getting the position, she was not aware quite _how_ upset she seemed to be about it. There was no way Weasley did not pick up on it.

They sat in awkward silence for several moments as he waited for Neville to bring his drink. When Neville finally set down the frosted glass filled with the familiar amber liquid, Pansy expected Weasley to quickly tuck tail and leave. But as he stepped away from the bar, he hesitated.

He took a breath and looked at her over his shoulder. “If it’s any consolation, Miss Parkinson, the wizard I wound up hiring has turned out to be completely useless.”

It was a white flag if she’d ever seen one. She was immensely curious as to why he’d felt the need to share that, but she absolutely refused to allow herself to hope that perhaps he regretted his choice to not give her a change.

In any case, it made her lip twitch. Just a little bit.

“Took you for more of an Elderflower wine man.”

He stopped and turned to her, surprised she said something. “Pardon me?”

In spite of herself, Pansy’s face heated up. She tried again. “I figured your drink of choice would be Elderflower wine. Or something along that line.”

The corner of his mouth quirked upward and he slowly approached the bar once more, still a cautious distance from her. “Oh no,” he said evenly. “I much prefer Celery and Beetroot Wine.”

Pansy blinked at him. _Merlin’s balls_ , Pansy thought. “Was that a joke?” she said aloud. “Did _Percy Weasley_ actually make a _joke_?”

She would have called the look he gave her “mildly offended” if he hadn’t paired it with a self-satisfied smirk. Bloody hell, it was a joke.

“Despite what my brother George says about me behind my back, I have been known to do that from time to time,” he said. And for the first time in history (it seemed that way, but obviously wasn’t actually true) Percy Weasley had a genuine smile on his face.

The expression tugged at something inside her.

When they had been at Hogwarts, Percy had been dreadfully serious. In all honesty, Pansy couldn’t remember much of her time at Hogwarts; her mission to simply forget the first seventeen years of her life was shaping up to be wildly successful. But she at least knew that much about him. He had taken his role as Prefect incredibly seriously and then his tenure as Head Boy even more so. 

His dedication to those roles would, under usual circumstance, be incredibly admirable. But no one really seemed to admire him. The more he seemed to want people to take him seriously, the more they treated him like a joke. Likewise, his younger twin brothers—Fred and George, she remembered—who did _nothing_ seriously had the respect of most of the school, including some of the faculty.

Pansy looked at the most serious man she’d ever met who, in that moment, had an easy smile creasing his eyes—so _fucking_ blue—and realised how much the world had really changed.

~*~*~*~*~

When she left that night, she said goodbye to him. He’d just smiled at her and said, “See you soon.”

She really hoped he meant it.

~*~*~*~*~

The next week, her and her friends returned to The Leaky Cauldron. As Theo flirted incessantly with a red-faced Longbottom, she saw them walk in.

They were down to four Weasleys this time—Bill probably home with his pregnant wife and child (Percy had briefly talked about them that last time).

Draco and Hermione had tagged along, so when the band of gingers (plus Harry, of course) entered the pub, Hermione bounded over to greet them. Pansy watched as Draco followed hesitantly but relaxed as Harry greeted him with a handshake.

She scanned the faces of the Weasleys, one by one, trying to appear like she wasn’t looking for anything. Ron smiled awkwardly at her, while Ginny and George smirked knowingly at her. When she finally met his eyes, he was smiling. It was subtle, but it was just for her.

She rolled her eyes and quirked her head, beckoning him to join her.

They returned every weekend for a while, an unspoken rule between the two groups. Sometimes the ones with better things to do (i.e. families, fiancees, businesses) joined them, sometimes they didn’t. It didn’t matter, though, because _he_ always came.

They talked about a lot of things. Most of the time, she couldn’t keep up with what he was saying. Oftentimes he was explaining concepts that she didn’t understand. She didn’t mind though; she liked to watch him explain things, even if afterwards she still didn’t understand. Surprisingly, he never got annoyed or uptight about it. He’d just laugh it off, order them another round, and turn the discussion back to her.

One night, he suddenly began talking about his time at Hogwarts.

“I wish I’d allowed myself to enjoy my time there,” he said wistfully, swirling the last dregs in his pint. He looked at her. “You know?”

Pansy stared at him for a long moment because she did know. She knew very well. She nodded. “I wish I had been nicer to people,” she said before she could stop herself. “I was a bitch.”

He frowned. “Not always,” he said.

Pansy let out a hearty, guttural laugh right in his face. “What are you talking about?” she asked when she could breathe again.

The smirk he often employed returned to his face. “I just—I remember this time my last year… your third year?” She nodded. He continued. “I found you in a corridor after hours. You were crying.”

Pansy knew. _That time, in third year—_

Her and Draco had broken up (for the first time). She was, of course, absolutely devastated. She’d been so hysterical she hadn’t noticed how late it had gotten, and she certainly hadn’t heard Percy’s footsteps when he approached her.

When he’d seen her, he’d begun with his signature, “Excuse me, third year, what are you doing out after hours?”

She’d been so furious, she snapped at him. “ _Fuck off, Weasley_ ,” she’d seethed. She could imagine how she must’ve looked; absolutely bright red with tears and snot streaming down her face.

She expected him to lash out right back at her, to give her detention and take away fifty points and say things like, “Well, I _never_ ,” and “How _dare_ you?” Instead, though, he gave her a look of absolute empathy.

Of course he was awkward as he cleared his throat and began to speak again—he wouldn’t be Percy Weasley, otherwise—but in that moment she'd felt comforted.

“Are you alright, Miss Parkinson?” he’d asked.

She’d stared him down and simply replied, “No.”

“Are you physically hurt in any way, Miss Parkinson?” he’d asked.

She’d continued to stare him down, her voice monotone, her tears subsiding. “No.”

“Good,” he’d said, nodding. “Then, if you’re able, please return to the Slytherin dormitories.”

“Are you going to take points away? Or give me detention?” She had to ask.

He’d swallowed. “No.”

“Thank you,” she’d said and begun to walk away.

She didn’t know why she turned back to face him after she’d taken a few steps or what the hell had possessed her to say the next thing she said to him. She’d thought, at that time, that perhaps she’d gone temporarily insane. Though the more scientific explanation had to be that the oxytocin or endorphins or whatever the hell her brain had released when she was crying made her say it. 

In any case, she’d turned back to him. She matched his gaze— _impossibly blue_ —and said, “You’re my favorite Weasley.”

As he told her the story—exactly the way she remembered it, but also completely different—he was smiling. “No one ever said anything like that to me before,” he said.

Pansy—and everyone else, as far as she could tell—had always assumed that Percy didn’t care what people thought about him. He’d never reacted when people snickered behind his back, never got upset when his siblings (or _parents_ ) chastised him for being “too uptight.” He’d always seemed to have a stiff upper lip.

Pansy realised suddenly that this was not true. He cared very much what people had to say about him, though he never let it show.

He grinned at her in a way that suggested that he truly believed her to be kind, and in that moment she knew that if he tried to kiss her, she’d let him. (He didn’t try to kiss her that night, but at one point she thought that maybe he’d wanted to and that felt good, too.)

~*~*~*~*~

They fell into each other slowly, as her friends slithered among lions.

She was intrigued by Daphne and Ginny and Blaise all but grinding into each other on their makeshift dance floor next to the enchanted record player. But what had been the true inspiration was when she stumbled upon Theo and Potter snogging in a darkened corridor near the loos. 

They had been chatting easily the whole night, catching each other up on the ongoings of their respective weeks. All too often she found herself thinking of the week as the too-long period of time she had to go before seeing him again. It never failed to surprise her at how quickly they’d become comfortable enough with each other to hold an actual conversation, instead of the typical disjointed, “how-about-this-weather.” She couldn’t remember a time when talking to him wasn’t completely natural.

He was in the middle of telling a story about his oafish assistant, but Pansy was staring at that freckle on the tip of his nose instead of really listening. She was so intent that she failed to notice, for several moments, that he had stopped talking.

“You’re not listening,” he said, though the smirk she’d become acquainted with was present.

Her face heated in spite of herself, and she let out what could only be described as a _giggle_ , much to her horror. “You have this freckle right _here_.” Her finger just lightly tapped the tip of his nose, ghosting over that damn freckle. 

Unbeknownst to them, the whole night—along with the past few weeks—had been leading up to the hungry look he gave her just then.

She had realised, after she eventually finished that second glass of Ogden’s that first night, that he was hiding a lithe form under his frumpy sweater vest. 

She’d appreciated the view of his forearms (framed _beautifully_ by the rolled up sleeves of his undershirt) as he tipped back a shot of gin in a misguided attempt to catch up to her on another night—and she’d noticed the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he drank heartily from a glass of water, trying to drown out the harsh taste.

She’d taken in the sight of his lips as they pursed in thought, relished the sound of his laugh as she told a joke, and felt the warmth of his skin as she touched his shoulder, his forearm, his knee as they shared stories.

But that moment, _that very moment_ , was when she became aware of how badly she wanted him.

She caught his eye and leaned in close. He couldn’t seem to stop himself from mirroring her. Her lips brushed his ear when she whispered, “Do you want to take me home?”

~*~*~*~*~

She couldn’t remember when and where her dress came off, but it was sometime after he closed the front door to his flat and before he got her through the doorframe of his bedroom.

He cradled her face with his hands and kissed her deeply as he led her slowly backward through his room. She trusted him to guide her and didn’t worry about stumbling over a pile of clothes or a misplaced shoe because she just knew that Percy Weasley would not be caught dead with his bedroom in such a state. Sure enough, though they were both thoroughly distracted by the soft ministrations of his lips and tongue on hers, the back of her knees hit the edge of his—tidy, impeccably made—bed without incident. 

Once there, she fumbled with his belt, but only a little. Her hands shook almost imperceptibly. She let out a shaky breath as his hands stopped hers.

“Are you alright?” His voice was low and she felt his words rumble through his chest.

She didn’t trust her voice so she simply nodded, but he shook his head.

“I need to hear it,” he rasped, his voice catching as he restrained himself from taking her lips with his own once more.

“ _Yes_ ,” she breathed, and instantly his mouth was on hers.

He tasted of the single pint of Butterbeer he’d only taken two sips of, and she imagined she tasted the same, as she’d forgone any drinks and chose instead to nick a taste of his. She thought of it sitting at the bar, barely touched, as they left the pub.

She fell back to sit on the edge of the bed and her hands worked marginally better as she tugged once again on his belt. She got it undone, but his hands replaced hers as he popped open the button of his trousers, pushed them down, and stepped out of them, his mouth never once leaving hers.

Her hands placed themselves on his hips and, without her knowledge, up under his jumper and onto the flat plane of his abdomen. She felt him breathing, his diaphragm expanding and deflating under her palms as they slowly made their way up to his chest, the fabric of his top riding up.

With a grunt, he left her mouth and tugged it over his head in a fluid motion before sending it careening through the air to an unknown point in the room. While he did so, Pansy reached around her back and undid her bra. When he finally made eye contact with her again in the dim light of his bedroom, she nearly moaned. His eyes— _so so so blue_ —were so blown out they were almost black.

“ _Bloody hell_ ,” he groaned and all but fell on the bed with her. He grasped her by the waist and rolled her over him.

Instinctively, she ground herself into him. Already she could feel him, impossibly hard underneath the two remaining pieces of fabric that separated them.

She began tugging at his pants. “Fuck,” she cursed. “Off. Get them _off_.”

He chuckled, and with her chest pressed to his it felt like a purr. He tried to oblige, but her position on top of him made it a little tricky, so she’d rolled off of him once more and they both tugged off their underwear. (She threw her knickers so hard she heard them connect with the wall opposite them with a smack.)

She resumed her position on top of him and sent her hips careening into his once more. She was already so incredibly wet that she easily slid along the underside of his cock. They both moaned in sync at the contact.

“I want… _ungh_ … you… inside me,” Pansy panted. She rutted against him as Percy bucked his hips up into hers.

Percy growled and flipped Pansy onto her back and, as he hovered over her, Pansy couldn’t help but gulp. Because, honestly, where _the_ _fuck_ had _that_ come from? She moaned and grasped for him, embarrassed at how wantonly she was pressing herself into him, how desperately she needed him inside of her, but also not really caring.

She held the length of him and lined him up to her entrance, the head of his cock soaked with her slickness and his. As he slid inside of her inch by glorious inch, he captured the low moan that escaped her with his mouth.

He began slow, allowing her to adjust around him, but soon she was bucking up into him, urging him to go faster, harder. She broke contact with his lips to watch him bury himself inside her repeatedly.

“ _Fuck_ ,” was all she could breathe out on a loop as he pounded into her. She could feel her climax building up steadily inside of her, welling up like a dam ready to burst.

“Pansy—” her name came out as a whine and she reveled in it, “—you feel so fucking _good_.”

He stretched out his hand and the pad of his thumb fumbled around near her entrance. She took his hand, guiding him to her clit and used him to get herself off.

His rough moan is what broke her, her legs trembling as she clenched and pulsed around him. Her mouth formed a perfect, silent ‘O’ as she crested over wave after wave of her orgasm.

After what felt like hours, she was able to take a gasping inhale. Percy slipped out of her and her cunt clenched wildly at the sudden loss. Her limbs felt like gelatin as he tried to flip her over to her stomach.

They both let out exhausted laughter as he tugged at her hips, prompting her to shakily bring her knees up under her. She was able to get her bum up into the air, but knew her arms, still trembling from the force of her orgasm, would not be able support her upper half. Instead, she rested on her forearms and kept her face pressed into the pillow, which muffled the gasping breaths and soft moans escaping from her mouth.

Achingly slow, he entered her once again from behind. Then he folded himself over her, his chest to her back, and whispered in her ear, “Is this good?”

“Yes, yes, _yes_ ,” she grunted into the pillow.

Spurred on by her repetitive assent, his hips set a brutal pace as he slammed into her again and again and again with a force she could only describe as perfect. "Fuck, you have no idea how bad I've wanted this," he croaked. “When you came in— _fuck_ —into the Ministry. That tiny little skirt—”

For a moment, she became aware of where she was and who was absolutely _fucking_ her into his bed. 

The list of people she thought she’d eventually have sex with had definitely never included Percy Weasley. But there she was, being pounded into an incoherent mess by the ginger former-Head Boy so well that she wasn’t altogether unconvinced that he hadn’t _studied_ the art of positively destroying her.

She would’ve laughed if she wasn’t so busy crying out a raucous, moaning barrage of “ _please, please, please_ ,” and “oh, _fuck_ ,” and “right there _, right there_.”

She could tell from the increasingly staccato movement of his thrusts that he was close, and the thought of him coming undone inside her made her clench hard around him, so close to her second orgasm she could almost taste it.

He must’ve sensed it, too, because his hips snapped impossibly hard against her. She could barely hear the bed frame groaning in protest underneath them or the headboard ricocheting against the wall over the sound of her own cries.

Out of nowhere, he brought a stinging hand to her backside, and she became a twitching, writhing, trembling mess underneath him for the second time that night. The feeling of her fluttering and squeezing around his cock was just the thing to send him over the edge, and with two final pumps, he was emptying himself in her with a keening moan.

It took many long moments before she was able to come out of her orgasm-induced paralysis.

She rolled over on the bed to face him, their noses touching. “Well that was fun,” she joked, still a little out of breath.

Percy gave her that smirk, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. For a moment, she saw a flash of the old him, an incredibly serious, almost smug over-achiever. But he looked totally debauched, with mussed ginger hair, conspicuously missing horn-rimmed glasses (where _had_ they gone?), flushed freckled cheeks, and a fond glint in his incredibly beautiful blue eyes, and Pansy decided she didn’t really mind.

And then the flash was gone, and he was back to the him that Pansy knew, if he asked, she'd give herself to. He was less of an insufferable over-achiever but was incredibly serious when he whispered, “Stay.”

Pansy rolled her eyes and pressed her lips to his. “Duh.”

She thought about how it began, and she’d never been more grateful to not get a job in her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, yes, we *are* going to pretend that I don't just post bits of stories, never finish them, and then disappear for long stretches of time.
> 
> Both Harry Potter and Harry Styles hold significant, nostalgic places in my heart, and since the world has descended into chaos, I've been re-obsessing over both as a coping mechanism. And now that I have more free time since graduating college, only working part-time, and not having the ability to go anywhere, I've fallen back into more time-consuming hobbies that I never really make time for when I'm busy. Writing fanfiction is one such hobby. Combine all three things, and apparently this is what you get.
> 
> Feel free to leave suggestions for pairings (especially rare/non-canon ones). There will be more, I promise.


	2. no one to blame but the drink and my wandering hands

“no one to blame but the drink and my wandering hands” (“Falling” - Fine Line)  
Rating: Mature (language, sex)  
Pairing(s): Draco x Hermione  
Summary: There’s infidelity. And hands. Everything is not as it seems. A non-chronological account of how Hermione’s marriage fell apart. Post-Hogwarts era. Not Cursed Child compliant. Obvi.

. . . 

_His hands._

_She stares at his hands. They’re quite beautiful, for hands._

_She doesn’t remember his hands always being like that._

. . . 

She catches him in the back room of the shop with a hand up the skirt of a 22-year-old. 

The girl’s moans are positively pornographic and she almost blushes at the things she hears her husband muttering in her ear. 

All this to say, they don’t realise she’s there for a little while. Although not particularly keen on voyeurism, Hermione is stuck in place and cannot seem to help but watch.

When they finally catch on that they have an audience, there’s a lot of swearing. Some crying (though, surprisingly, not from Hermione). Eventually Ron leaves and they don’t speak to each other directly for a month.

After the month is over, though, they get back together because her publicist insists.

_…the press, especially Rita Skeeter, will be looking for any reason to…_

_…just until after the election, and then we can talk about possibly…_

The only thing she thinks about for the entire month is that she cannot, for the life of her, recall the last time he touched her like that.

. . .

“I can’t.”

“Harry—”

“‘Mione, I told you I’m not taking sides!”

“I’m not asking you to—”

“Maybe not, but he’ll take it that way. You know how Ron is…”

“Harry, please don’t make me go to this thing alone.”

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I can’t, Hermione. I’m Switzerland, remember?”

She wants to retort back that it feels like he’s more of a member of the Allied forces right now and she’s only a step below Mussolini, but she holds her tongue and nods.

. . .

_His hand touches the small of her back—lightly, respectfully, barely—for a moment. A camera bulb flashes._

_The smile she gives is false, but not for the reasons she tries to convince herself it is._

_He’s gone just as quickly as he came, a phrase she has recently come to learn is true in more ways than one._

. . .

In the end, they frame it as a Powerful Woman Moment.

When Hermione first announced she was running for Minister, there was a huge emphasis on her as a mother. People apparently ate that shit up.

But since the incident where they had to get a 22-year-old shopgirl to sign an NDA so she didn’t tell anyone that the prime candidate for Minister for Magic’s husband shagged her in the storeroom of his and his brother’s joke shop, they’ve since changed tactics.

She’s a progressive feminist now. And she has the lack of a date at a formal Ministry gala to prove it.

They are able to get one foot in ahead of the press to say that no, there is no cause for concern at Ron’s absence.

“He’s at home watching the children,” Hermione says with a laugh, showing everyone she’s well aware of the irony of the situation

She doesn’t know how, but it seems to work—there are articles that come out the next couple days about Hermione and Ron’s “modern” approach to parenting, how badass she is for showing up alone, how good of a father Ron is.

Although she has to face everyone in the room alone, without someone at her side lending her moral support or a believable escape route, Hermione finds herself actually enjoying the night. For the longest time, she doesn’t know why. Can’t quite place a finger on it. 

But then, as she’s talking to a member of the Wizengamot whose name she’s honestly forgotten, her attention catches on a couple having a row in the corner of the ballroom. They’re close enough that Hermione can tell their hushed words aren’t hushed enough.

“I didn’t want to come to this bloody thing in the first place,” the woman says. “I told you that!”

“Please, just another half hour,” the man pleaded. “Then we can go home, I swear.”

The woman hesitates. Then she rolls her eyes and fiddles with the man’s tie. “Fine,” she sighs. “But if we’re not out the door in exactly thirty minutes, you’re sleeping on the sofa.”

Ron hated coming to events with Hermione. He hated dressing up in dress robes and plastering on fake smiles and making benign conversation with people who just wanted things from him.

When they were just married and had to attend events like this, he would often convince her to sneak off with him for a suspicious amount of time. She was convinced that one such rendezvous was how Hugo was conceived. 

But as they got older, whenever they snuck off, it was to have a screaming match about one thing or another.

A hand waves in front of her face and Hermione is brought out of her trance.

She snaps her head to her conversational partner and finds them staring at her with a confused expression, no doubt wondering what is so interesting about a now-empty corner of the large room.

“Excuse me for just a moment,” she says, her voice thin.

Luckily, she’s able to find an empty, darkened corridor before the tears begin. She leans against a wall, sucking in ragged breaths and futilely trying to stop the tears from continuing.

She stays like this for a long while before she hears footsteps approaching. She hastily rubs at her eyes and cheeks, no doubt ruining the Muggle mascara and foundation she’d applied for the evening.

When she turns to face the person with a fake smile and bleary eyes, they are nothing but a large backlit silhouette.

“Oh. Granger.”

. . .

Hermione first became suspicious that Ron was sleeping with someone else when he began to stay later at work.

It wasn’t an immediate suspicion because Ron could be very convincing when he wanted to be. He made the excuse that the shop wasn’t doing so well, and so he and George were staying late to develop new products and find different ways to save money. 

Of course, Hermione believed him because she trusted her husband. And Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was putting out more products.

But then, when Hermione was out one night, a late night that Ron said he’d be working with his brother, she saw George and Angelina running errands. While Hermione wanted to trust Ron when he gave her excuses as to why he wouldn’t be home for supper, she began to believe him less and less.

Until, finally, she gave up and went to the shop one night Ron said he’d be working late.

And, well… it went about as well as she’d imagined.

. . .

_A hand touches her shoulder and he asks if she’s alright. There is no hint of a sneer._

_She wishes there was. It would make this a whole lot easier._

_Instead, she gives him a tight-lipped smile and nods._

_His fingers linger on her arm for a moment longer than they necessarily should as he releases her shoulder._

. . .

His grey eyes seem to be staring into her soul as he fixes her with an unreadable gaze.

She takes him in as he stands in front of her, tall and looming. She’d say he looks almost the same as she remembers him, but she has tried very hard not to remember him and they way he looked and the words he said.

“Weasley,” she mutters in response to him finally. It’s a reflex and she regrets it immediately when it leaves her mouth.

“Right,” he says and he seems at least a little apologetic. “Of course. Mrs. Weasley.”

She barely manages to stop herself from flinching.

His expression is utterly inscrutable for a long moment before a smirk spreads across his lips. It’s familiar, in a way, but no longer hinted with any kind of malice.

He looks fucking good, she realises. The force of this realisation hits her like a train and she would have stumbled back if it weren’t for the wall behind her. The thought leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Malfoy,” she says, nodding to him and trying not to make eye contact. She plants to push her way past him, but something keeps her back glued to the wall.

He opens his mouth to say something to her, but hesitates. For a brief flash, she sees his internal argument. Eventually, though, he tries again and succeeds. “Are you… alright?”

Hermione actually snorts. The laugh she lets out takes her by complete surprise; it is a bitter, ugly thing. She feels herself come unglued from the wall and walks past him without another word.

. . .

After they got married, they couldn’t stop touching each other, like they couldn’t believe the other was real.

After Rose was born, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

After Hugo was born, their hands turned soft and gentle. Almost hesitant.

After Perdita was born, they struggled to remember how each other’s hands felt.

. . .

_There’s hands in the wild, tangled mess of her hair. The hard work of beauty potions and smoothing charms and Muggle hair products all laid to waste in the matter of seconds._

_Fingers grasp at her scalp, tugging her head back so lips can reach the soft skin of her neck._

_She feels tongue and teeth and forgets for a moment who she is._

. . .

She meets his eye across the room several times that night, often over the rim of a martini glass. Now that she is aware of him, it seems impossible to ignore him.

She thinks about the last time she saw him, what feels like a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago.

She wonders what he must think of her now. As he watches her flutter around the room, drinking a little too much, but charming everyone that needs to be charmed all the same.

She wonders how he feels about the election, her running for Minister for Magic. Does he laugh at the thought?

She tells herself she doesn’t care and ends her spiraling train of thought.

Then, he asks her to dance. 

She is speaking with a reporter, something casual and “off the record,” though she doubts that anything she says as a candidate for Minister is ever truly “off the record.” He politely interrupts and casually asks her to dance with him, as if it were the most natural thing on the planet.

She supposes it would be, if he were anyone else.

The reporter comments casually on her hesitation, and she knows he must smell blood in the water. She could already picture the headline for the papers tomorrow, mentioning something about old school grudges dying hard. But It’s not like she could say no, even if the reporter wasn’t already sniffing her out. 

Draco is much-beloved. His charity work after the war has been deemed comparable to that of Hermione’s. The fact that he managed to help thousands who struggled after the war while also becoming a self-made multi-millionaire after reparations gutted the Malfoy vaults was deemed extremely admirable. His redemption arc is a favorite amongst the journalism community and general wizarding population alike.

So Hermione laughs and gives Draco Malfoy her best attempt at a genuine smile, accepting his hand as they walk out to the dance floor. 

They face chest-to-chest and his right hand settles on her lower back, the familiarity of which makes Hermione’s face heat.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” she asks through gritted teeth.

“I think you know,” he replies smoothly. “Granger.”

. . .

_“Fuck, Granger.”_

_He says her name like a curse._

_Maybe it is a curse._

_She moans into his mouth in reply, too afraid to say anything more._

. . .

The girl hastily shoved down her skirt, her face beet red, though not entirely from embarrassment at being caught.

Ron was frozen, tense.

The girl looked between Hermione, who was expressionless, and Ron, who refused to look at anyone but whose face was contorted with rage. “Um, Ron?”

“Wait downstairs,” Hermione said calmly to the girl. “But please don’t leave.”

After the girl left, Hermione stared at her husband for a long time. It was silent except for Ron’s heavy breaths that slowly became more rapid. Although she was watching him closely, it still took her a minute to realise he was crying.

“I tried for the longest time,” he said, his voice thick. He finally looked up to meet her eyes.

“I know,” Hermione ceded. Now it was her turn to look away.

“I loved her,” Ron choked out. “But, fuck, Hermione. She has his fucking eyes.”

_Grey eyes._

“I know.”

She was a surprise. Hermione said she was done after Hugo. Ron didn’t make a big deal. He’d done the big family thing. Two children was enough. Besides, between the two they already had, they were often too exhausted to even think about trying for a third.

When Perdita was born, she had Hermione’s hair, Hermione’s nose, Hermione’s lips. Everything. But the one thing she didn’t have was Hermione’s eyes.

She didn’t have Ron’s eyes, either, for that matter.

. . .

_She’s drunk. She didn’t intend to get drunk. It’s a professional outing and Ron is discreetly keeping her from swaying a little._

_She escapes to the restrooms, partially to try and sober herself up and partially because she saw Malfoy heading there five minutes before._

_They have danced around each other all night._

_She knows when she lets go of Ron’s arm and excuses herself, she is going to do the worst thing she has ever done. The stupidest thing she has ever done._

_The best thing she has ever done._

_She curses herself that it’s only been six months since Hugo was born and almost turns away. But when he melts from the shadows of the corridor and wordlessly stares at her, Hermione finds she cannot move._

_The ring on his left hand glints with dim light._

_“Yes,” she breathes out because he’s asked her a question without saying anything._

_They Apparate away. That night, she feels him everywhere._

. . . 

His hand rested lightly on her waist as they danced, reminding her of the countless times it’d been there before.

_As they stood and smiled for a quick photo op._

_As she wantonly rode his cock._

_As he stood behind her while she made them breakfast, her husband thinking she was out of town for work._

Amidst all the headlines praising Hermione’s appearance at the gala and her and Ron’s wonderful parenting, there is one that slips by almost unnoticed from a small gossip magazine.

_Malfoy’s Wandering Hands:_   
_Business mogul cozies up to Minister for Magic candidate Hermione Granger._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, well, it's definitely not my favorite thing I've ever written. But I wrote three drafts and disliked them all. I was about to scrap the idea altogether and write something different. But I knew that would mean another week/week-and-a-half without posting and I was feeling really motivated to try and post approximately once a week. I knew that if I didn't keep myself on track, this would just become another abandoned project and I really want to challenge myself to continue writing and get better.
> 
> So, in the end, I thought that I might as well post the last draft I finished and hope that perhaps someone might like it. If you don't, I apologize. But I mean, come on, *worse* fanfiction has been written.
> 
> Leave a comment if you feel so inclined. Feel free to suggest pairings. I'm always looking for inspo.


End file.
